Snow as little prayers, or wings,
clipped and left behind by angels
that decided to become
humans today. And today,
the interiority of rain. It’s true,
I don’t know how to make meanings
of my mess. My palms, pinkened
as they scooped up an armful
of torn, crystalized wings, feathered with
ground & dirt, and held it close
to my chest. Where can I put it down?
Anne Carson’s persona in The Glass Essay
replied, when her mother told her
her memories need some sorts
of unhoarding. I wonder about ways
to respond to that, when all the
spaces I have left are, already,
behind me (?) The snow that charmed me
has now brushed against that window-pane,
where stood a boy, donning
the straps of his mother’s maxi dress.
The mirror in front of him has
this slight torque from fingerprints.
Fake silverware and light, reverberating in
mythic photons. Vision of a snowfield,
where winter frost bruises everything
into a quiet something. Little metaphors
that are beautiful in this life only.
You must wonder now—
if the snow has become the boy’s mucus,
pooling on his wrists, as he crouched down,
hands scratching kneecaps. Or is it
the milkwood flowers outside,
pluming the streets with their pale, steely
canopies. Like the said God’s arms,
flailing and reaching to hear the last
words of his kind—